Kats Liquor Parking Lot

On the outskirts of town there is an urban hermit. At least that is the label I’ve ascribed.

Dressed like a lumberjack, however his jeans were cutoffs, his boots were clean white sneakers, and the red cap he wore was made for baseball. (Didn’t see if there were white writing on the front, so putting that thought to the side. I don’t want to assume.) His beard and hair were white and long, as if Santa were a surfer dude wearing dark sunglasses. His translucent skin had not seen the sun in years. I say all this to provide a visual of the protagonist.

In the parking space next to mine, the man stepped into his high-end mud-splattered Volvo. As he backed out, a thank you was said to the clerk who had loaded a box filled with at least nine Tito’s bottles with handles. He waved as he drove off saying to the Kats employee, “See you next month!”

I really, really, really wanted to follow him to observe and learn more.

Tales from Jackson